


Music of the Reach

by sunkelles



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Fluff, Humor, Margaery can't sing, Sansa fosters at Highgarden, Sansa is really smitten, but even a large amount of love can't make it sound good, or play an instrument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:10:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3096032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the guests at a Highgarden feast want Margaery to sing, and eventually she has to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music of the Reach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rachelisnotcool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelisnotcool/gifts).



> So yeah, this is just fluff. A big helping of fluff and my favorite head-canon. 
> 
>  
> 
> Margaery can't sing to save her life.

One of the most wonderful things about living at Highgarden is the music. Bards and instrumentalists from across the land try to make their breaks there, and many of them have talent oozing from their skin. Some are less talented than others, but many of the women have voices like flutes and the men have voices deep and smooth like melted chocolate.

“Sing us a song, Lady Margaery!” Lord Redwyne shouts. Margaery blushes in embarrassment.

“You don’t want me to sing,” she says sheepishly, which is highly out of character. Margaery is normally confident about all things, because she is good at all things.

“I’m sure that you’re fine,” Lady Florent says, “Sing us a song.”

“I’m sick,” she mumbles, and then other woman laughs.

“I’m sure you’re just being modest, sing us a song,” she says. The entire court looks to her expectantly, and Margaery sighs.

“A bear there was, a bear, a bear!

all black and brown, and covered with hair.

The bear! The bear!” she starts to sing, and it takes Sansa only three words to realize that Margaery cannot sing. It sounds the way cats do when they’re in pain, but she tries to keep the look off her face. The other members of the court are not so polite as the song continues. The faces of the feast goers rang from pained to confused to horrified as Margaery finally wraps up the song that they demanded to hear.

A few men look as they’re going to speak, but the Lady Olenna glares at them so fiercely they might have turned to stone. Sansa looks to Margaery, whose face has turned as red as Sansa’s hair in embarrassment. Sansa, in desperation, starts to clap. Around her, the Tyrells and the rest of Margaery’s relatives start to clap as well, and Olenna’s glare intensifies on the men remaining silent. The hall erupts into halfhearted, polite applause, and as soon as Sansa finishes, the people around her do too.

* * *

 

 

“Did you really like it?” Marg asks her, as she nuzzles against Sansa’s neck.

“Yes, of course,” Sansa lies, “it was an, er, interesting commentary on the smothering roles that upper class Westerosi women must fill.” Sansa had never pulled something so totally out of her ass before. She thinks that Megga and Alla are right about her being a terrible liar. 

Margaery sends her a puzzled look and then says, “Yes, of course, Sansa. That’s exactly what I was trying to do.”  She gets a look of mad joy in her eyes, and Sansa wonders if she’s created a monster.

* * *

 

 

Margaery breaks four harps in a week. If the Tyrells weren’t one of the wealthiest families in Westeros, Sansa doubts that they’d be able to afford it.

“Sansa,” she says, voice full of excitement and tinted with pride, “listen to this.”

She plays one of the simplest songs that Sansa knows, a well-known one about hot cross buns, and even manages to make a few mistakes in the pattern of three notes. Her proud smile almost makes Sansa regret her white lie earlier.

But apparently, the look on Sansa’s face tells the whole story.

“I’m absolutely terrible, aren’t I?” Margaery asks, and knowing how her lover reacts to false praise, Sansa doesn’t soffen her next words.

“Well, yes,” she says, and the other girl winces.

“But you’re fantastic at other things,” she says.

“I’m sorry for subjecting you to that,” Marg tells her, “I just wanted to impress you.”

“It’s alright,” Sansa tells her, intertwining their fingers, “Just please, never play the harp again.”

“Or sing?” she asks.

“By the Seven, no,” Sansa says. Margaery smiles at her, and then leans in, until her lips are ghosting over Sansa’s ear.

“I can think of better things to do with my tongue,” she says softly, and white hot desire flushes through Sansa.

Maybe this hasn’t been a complete waste after all.


End file.
